


press play, don't press pause (we have to change us)

by hishn_greywalker



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 15:52:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hishn_greywalker/pseuds/hishn_greywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad never went to military school, but he met Nate anyway. au.</p>
            </blockquote>





	press play, don't press pause (we have to change us)

**Author's Note:**

> title from macklemore. I was in the middle of writing my apocalypse_bang fic (as one does) when this came to me, so I stayed up all night and wrote it (as one should do). beta by the most wonderful sara.

When Brad is 14, his mother comes to pick him up from the police station. Her eyes are hard and her mouth is set in a firm line, and Brad knows the guilt she's going to pour on him is never going to stop. That night, there's a long, heated discussion in his parents' room that both his sister and he can hear from theirs.

His dad wants to send him to a military academy that someone at work had told him about when he'd been bitching about Brad's latest escapades. His mother won't hear of it, though, and is determined that if they give him enough chances, they'll get it right.

Brad doesn't know if one is more right than the other. He doesn't think he'll stop fucking up. Not because he doesn't want to, but because _he can't_. But he sure as hell doesn't want to go to military school.

At 18, Brad has been arrested twice more. The third time, the cop who arrested him explained to him how much he was fucking up, in small words, and how much he has to be grateful for. A nice family in a nice neighborhood. Money and cars and good schools. Faith and love.

Brad knows all this. He doesn't want to feel guilty that he has more than the rest of the kids he was going to be in a cell with.

He determines to never get arrested again.

At 19, Brad enters his first illegal street race. He's on a bike, a sweet little Suzuki that he modded himself, though the parts had been stolen. He wins the race by three bike lengths, the largest margin of the night. Because he's new and nobody knows him from Adam, he wins a good chunk of change, too.

No one ever makes that mistake again. They call him the Iceman after just four races, and it sticks. Every other month, he ends up in LA, racing against men who scare the shit out of him but who offer up pink slips to bikes that Brad can only dream of affording.

He still hasn't lost.

He stays out of the hard shit. No drugs, no gangbanging, no assault. No murder, especially. Still, he's armed almost all the of the time. He has a whole host of guns he's brought back from Mexico and Nevada, but his favorite is a little S&W Sigma 9mm that he treats like gold. He loves that there's no delay when he fires it, and even if the barrel is so short he doesn't get much accuracy at range, he figures that's not what he'll ever need it for.

He meets Nate on accident in 2001. Nate is wearing khaki shorts and a polo and carrying a veritable stack of books with him out of a coffee shop when someone runs into him. Brad steadies him and the books, and the smile Nate gives him as a thanks makes Brad's dick twitch.

Nate insists on buying him coffee. The girl behind the counter raises an eyebrow at Nate's return, but when he shrugs and glances at Brad, the girl grins. "Can't say I blame ya, babe," she tells him, popping her gum and ringing them up.

They talk for over an hour that day before Nate realizes the time and starts cursing. "Sorry, I have class, I can't miss it," he says, hefting his books.

Brad smiles. "Hey, no problem. It was nice to meet you."

Nate grins at him. "Yeah, yeah, it was. Call me sometime?" he asks, nodding to the table.

He's left a napkin sitting on it, a phone number scrawled there.

When Brad looks up, Nate's pushing out the door. Brad picks up the napkin before he leaves.

Brad takes Nate out to dinner later that week. Nate is in graduate school at UCSD, getting a degree in international politics, and is working with someone at Pendleton. Brad tells him about the time he almost went to military school and about the motorcycle shop he works at now instead.

 

It takes a year before Brad brings Nate to a race. He pulls him into his bedroom and strips him out of his khaki and polo assemble, pressing jeans and a ratty black t-shirt at him. "Anonymity is good tonight, and that was a surefire way to be remembered," Brad tells him, nodding at the clothes on the floor. He really likes the look of Nate's clothes on his floor.

Nate seems to get it, even as he looks a little uncomfortable in the clothes for the first few minutes. Brad has a new bike now, still a Suzuki. This one is a GSX-R750, and it might be as close to perfection as Brad has ever felt on the road.

Nate had claimed to distrust bikes when he'd first met Brad, but by now, he's the best passenger Brad could want. He hugs close to Brad, his hands settling low on Brad's hips but not too tight, and he follows every lean Brad makes, but never too far. They've raced along empty roads in Arizona at 150mph, close to but not quite this bike's top speed, like this, and Brad thinks he could die happy feeling that.

Brad didn't tell him what was going on when he asked Nate if he was busy this night a few days before. Nate had looked curious, but they've both figured out when to press the other, and something in Brad's face must have told Nate not to.

He can see Nate almost balk when he pulls his Sigma out of his bedside drawer and tuck it into the back of his pants. The best part about this gun is the trigger safety: it can't go off from being dropped or knocked around or in his jeans on the bike. Nate doesn't know much about the gun he carries, only that he does. He hasn't ever said if he approves or not, but Brad knows that Nate knows that it's illegal, that there is no way that Brad has a concealed carry permit or has bought the gun legally in California.

He waits until Nate's shoulders relax and Nate nods once. "Just a precaution," he tells Nate. "Never had to use it, but I'd rather not find out I needed it and not have it."

Nate nods again. They zip up their coats and put on their helmets, and Nate settles in like he always does, except that this time, there's a gun pressed between them.

It's well past dark when Brad pulls onto the crowded street in LA where the race is happening. There are cars and bikes for blocks, girls wearing barely anything and guys showing off what they really don't have.

When Brad pulls in, there's a noticeable hush before a murmur races through the crowd. When they slip off the bike and pull off their helmets, Brad flashes a half-reassuring smile at Nate, and Nate nods back, understanding. These people are friendly, but not _friends_.

Someone peels off from the crowd and swaggers towards them. "Iceman!" he crows. He's a solid guy; someone told Brad he's an ex-Marine who got dragged back into the life by his family's shit.

"Poke," he greets the guy. He doesn't know how the name came about, but it's never said with anything less than complete respect where Brad can hear it.

"Who's your _friend_?" Poke asks. The way he says friend makes it clear that he knows the score here.

Brad hadn't really been trying to hide it. Anyone who wants to can give him as much shit as he wants—he's still gonna win every race and take all their money. "This is Nate. Nate, this is Tony Espera."

Nate's been watching the byplay closely. Brad sometimes thinks he'd have been good in the service, always noticing everything, always assessing every situation they get into. He's glad Nate didn't, though, because then they wouldn't have met.

And he also knows _why_ Nate's as good as he is as assessing the situations they walk into. He's told Brad a story or two from back in Baltimore, when he was just a kid stumbling through dating guys and the shit he'd put up with from complete strangers for doing things like holding his boyfriend's hand. Nate has a good reason to be on watch, and it makes Brad keep a close eye on things, too.

In this case, Nate has figured out that his Ivy League charm and good boy manners aren't particularly appropriate, so he just nods to Poke and says, "Hey."

Brad's lips twitch up at the corner, and if it had been just him and Nate, he'd have grinned. But he's pretty stoic at these things, and he likes being able to be a jackass and have people just wave it off instead of ending up in a knife fight.

He's been in a few of those, and he really fucking hates knife fights.

"Is that a smile I see you repressing, Iceman? Tell me it ain't so. Tell me the Iceman hasn't found a nice little man to settle down with, to crack open that fucking ice front you got on, dawg." Poke leers at him, but from Poke, Brad knows it's friendly. If he had anyone to call a friend here, it'd be Poke.

"Settled as I'll get," Brad tells Poke, resting his hand on the small of Nate's back.

Brad knows exactly what message he's sending to the crowd subtly not watching them. _Mine_ , it tells them, _don't fuck with it._

Brad's been in two knife fights with people who are probably in this crowd. He's won them both because he took up MMA as a way to get him in shape and let him get in and out of places he shouldn't be able to. He won because if he didn't, he probably wouldn't be standing here.

Someone else wanders over. "Yo, you racin' tonight, Iceman?" the kid asks. He's the whitest motherfucker in the world, but he speaks like he's been running around the ghetto since he was born.

The kid's name is Stafford, but Poke, and only Poke, calls him Q-Tip. Apparently, he was a Marine with Poke who got out right before 9/11. Both of them have mentioned maybe going back because of it, but they're both still there when Brad turns up again. Brad doesn't ask.

"Yeah, I'm racing. You gonna race me, kid?" Brad asks, sharp and cool.

Stafford laughs. "Oh, hell, no. I like my bike, and I like my money. But I think I'll win some more off whatever race you take."

Brad half-nods at the kid, and Stafford lights up from the acknowledgement. Sometimes Brad thinks the kid would have been better off still in the Marines where he knew exactly how to get the slight praise he pretty much needs to keep moving. Brad's pretty sure it's why he's here with Poke, living on Poke's couch. Poke's wife has put up with it for over a year and seems to get it.

Plus, according to Poke, the kid is the best built in babysitter Poke could ever ask for and has basically been adopted as a big brother by his three little girls.

Brad does race. He leaves Nate with Poke and Stafford, touching his chin gently before he turns back to his bike. His eyes catch Poke's, and Poke nods sharply in reply to the silent question. He'll watch Nate's back, if anyone is stupid enough to try something on him to fuck with Brad.

Brad wins the race by four bike lengths. Not his best, but certainly not his worst. He collects a stack of bills and watches Stafford collect some off a guy Brad's never seen before. Stupid fuck should have asked around before he was fleeced by Stafford.

Nate is a bit wide-eyed when Brad gets back to him. He's watching everything like a kid who's never seen the ocean on his first day at the beach. "You good?" Brad asks him.

Nate nods. "Yeah," he tells him, then clears his throat. "That was really fucking hot."

Brad grins at him them, a full grin, no holds barred, and leans in and kisses him. There's a whistle and laughter from behind him, and Brad knows why all the other guys bring a girl with them now. The adrenaline from the race is segueing into sexual tension nicely, and it's better with Nate by 100 fold than it ever was with racing groupies, back before Nate existed.

They break the kiss after over a minute, and Nate looks even more glassy-eyed than before. "Fuck, Brad," he says. His voice is low and gravelly, and Brad really wants to fuck him right now.

They should be over two hours from Brad's house, but Brad is on a bike that goes 171 miles per hour and has a reason to get home fast. Poke hands him a piece of dark film that's sticky on one side, and Brad nods in thanks.

He pauses at his bike to slap the film on his license plate. Nate raises an eyebrow, and Brad shrugs. "I can get us home in an hour, and I know I can out run the cops…." He trails off. If Nate's not okay with this, he won't push it. Another hour before he fucks Nate will suck, but not fucking Nate at all will suck more.

Nate hesitates for just a second before he steps forward and pulls Brad down into a kiss, almost as hot as the one before. When they break apart, Brad almost feels like panting.

He's right. He gets them home in a little over an hour. Despite the film, they don't run into any cops at all.

When they get into Brad's garage, Nate is sliding off the bike and reaching for Brad almost before the engine is off. "Fuck, Brad," he says into their kiss, their helmets left on the bike.

Brad starts stripping them in the hallway from the garage. They're naked before they hit the bedroom, despite Brad's house being the size of a postage stamp. He hadn't really been looking for size when he bought it, just its attached garage and proximity to the ocean.

Nate hisses when Brad moves his kisses down his neck, biting down on his collar bone. "That was so fucking hot, Brad," Nate tells him, arching his back as Brad pushes him to the bed.

"Yeah?" Brad asks, lifting his mouth off of Nate for the second it takes to say that, then diving back in. He nips and sucks his way down Nate's torso, loving every sound Nate makes.

"Yeah. I just, I didn't know, and, fuck, watching you _win_ , and the ride back," Nate mutters, disjointed and lost, his voice blown and growly.

Brad revels in it. "Good," he tells him, then licks a long stripe up Nate's dick. The sound Nate makes is close to a keen.

Brad fucks him that night, long and hard, enough so that Nate will be feeling it the next day. Nate seems okay with that, though, clawing at Brad's shoulders and tightening his legs around him, begging for more between shattered breathing.

Later, when they're curled up in bed, sort of cleaned up by the warm washcloth Brad had retrieved from the bathroom, Brad tells Nate his secrets. "I wanna own my own shop someday, mod out bikes and do repairs," he says. "I figure, if I make that happen, I'll stop racing."

Nate nods sleepily. "Can't risk it, if you want to make sure your business stays legit."

Brad smiles into the space when Nate's shoulder meets his neck. "Exactly," he says against the skin there.

Nate murmurs again, more asleep than awake. He tightens his arm around Brad before relaxing all the way.

"I love you," Brad tells the skin under his lips. "So much."

Nate sighs in his sleep. Brad thinks he knows anyways.

 

Three years later, and Brad looks up from where he's working on a little Ninja in bad need of a new owner. Brad can only do so much for the bikes whose owners don't know what they're doing with them. Nate's standing in the open bay door, watching him. He's still dressed in his suit.

"Hey," he calls out softly, looking back down at the bike. "I only need a few more minutes to finish this."

Nate shrugs. "No hurry. I got out early. There was some big event happening that the general had to go take care of, one he didn't quiet trust his new civilian aid to be privy to," he tells him. His lips are twisted in a wry smile. The general Nate is an aide for doesn't really trust him, not even after a whole summer in DC. Nate says he doesn't blame him, even if he'd been recommended the position by another general.

"One of his Marines probably needed to take a shit," Brad tells him. It gets the desired reaction. Nate laughs.

In California, Nate living with another man and getting his degree while working with the Marines wasn't even blinked at. Brad had come with Nate to a lot of things and met a lot of Marines. He met a few who knew Poke and Q-Tip, who were happy to hear the two were still alive and even more happy to hear the blackmail stories about Stafford as de facto big brother.

In DC, it's been a bit more of an issue. Nate hasn't actually said anything to Brad, but Brad can read between the lines. None of the men than Nate works with are okay with it, even if they don't actually say anything. In a place where their relationship has more rights than less, Brad's a little jaded by their reaction. He's not shocked though.

Since they've settled into DC, Brad's thought about calling his family. He hasn't talked to his mother since 1995. It will be 10 years in the fall. His sister emails him from time to time, but the emails are always short and disjointed, full of information about the family he doesn't know anymore, her husband he's never met, the two nieces he's only ever seen pictures of.

He sends them birthday presents and something for both Hanukah and Christmas. Christina says they celebrate both loosely, herself a lax adoptive Jew and her husband a vague lax Christian who's never been to church. He's sure the girls don't care and just like the presents.

His mother sent him a letter every December when he lived in California. He's sure she got the address from Christina. He wonders if he'll get one this year at his new address in DC.

Christina knows about Nate. She knows he works for the government and that he's got multiple degrees, and once, when Brad told her, _I don't know how I landed this guy, Chris, he's way too good for me,_ she told him he was right, and that if that wasn't the best reason to clean up his act, she didn't know what was.

She'd clearly never seen how turned on Nate got when Brad took him to illegal races and won a stack of illegal money. Still, she'd been right. Brad hasn't done anything even remotely shady since Nate got offered this job.

Now, he finishes up on the Ninja, sighing because it really is a lost cause. The owner doesn't take near the care of it he should, only bringing it to someone when it's nearly falling apart on him or, this time, making a funny noise.

Bikes should not ever make funny noises.

Nate watches as he cleans up and puts his tools away. He washes his hands with the GoJo soap that leaves his hands raw but clean enough he can walk over and run his hands along Nate's waist as he kisses him hello. He makes sure their bodies don't touch, though, because the clothes Nate wears to work will forever be a lost cause if he does.

They live above the shop in the Near Northeast neighborhood. The loft apartment above it with lots of warehouse-style windows was one of the best things about the small garage that was for sale. Nate likes how much space the open floor plan makes it have and that it's two blocks from the metro he takes to work. Nate works out of Arlington, but he's in DC a lot more than having offices in Arlington suggests.

As they close the doors to the shop and head up the staircase towards their apartment, one of the guys who works at the corner shop across the street waves. It's been family-run since the fifties, and Josh is one of the current owner's nephews. He'd been one of the first people to wander by and introduce himself.

Their neighborhood is friendly and accepting. There'd been a few pauses when they'd figured out that Nate and Brad were _together_ , but no one had stopped talking to them. The old lady who runs the bakery down the street gives Nate an extra pastry when he tells him he's not headed into work, but back home to Brad. The man who owns the pub one street over is always complaining that neither of them will come work for him and bring their good looks with them, or at least come to eat there more often for the same reason.

It's starting to feel like home. Brad wasn't too keen on the move when they first made it, afraid his California bad boy personality wasn't going to fit in with the educated government aide lifestyle Nate was trying to cultivate.

They seem to be doing okay.

Dinner that night is a quick and easy pasta dish that they both help make. At one point, Brad slides around Nate to get something from the fridge and can't help but pause, pulling him into a soft, slow kiss. Nate laughs as Brad pulls away. "Hi," Brad tells him, smirking.

Nate raises an eyebrow. "Don't start this now, not if you want food soon."

Brad's hungry, but he has to think about it. He settles on waiting until the second they're done with food, dishes still on the table. He pulls Nate with him towards their bed, stripping what Nate hasn't already discarded of the fancy suit from him. Brad had changed into sweats and t-shirt when they came in, to avoid grease stains on everything they owned, and those are quickly shucked.

When they resurface later, Nate cuddles into Brad's chest as they lay curled up together. "I'm think about inviting Christina out here," Brad tells Nate.

Nate pauses with the lazy circles he'd been drawing on Brad's skin. "Yeah?" he asks.

Brad sighs. "Maybe for Thanksgiving. I couldn't… There wasn't a way while I lived in California. That sailed when I didn't come home after my last arrest."

Nate nods slowly, like he knows. He sort of does. He knows Brad was arrested three times, all before he turned 18. He knows he didn't clean up his act; he just got better, so as not to get caught. He knows his parents didn't kick him out, that his mom sends one letter a year, and that his sister still signs her emails "love you big brother, Chris."

Nate's family is cautious with him. They approved of him going to UCSD, but they weren't sure what to do with him working with the Marines. They were doubly unsure what to do with him being gay. They've known since he was in high school, Nate told him, but he'd never introduced anyone. Coming back to the area and working for a federal institution that fires people for being gay with a boyfriend wasn't something they could really understand.

Brad's been invited to every family gathering anyway. Nate isn't sure he wants to go. Brad thinks it says a lot about Nate's family that they'd make sure to include him.

After awhile of silence, Nate shifts so that he can look up into Brad's face. "You should invite her. We can take the girls to a few of the museums, let Christina and Dave have a few days to themselves. I'll see if I can get some time off when they come out."

Brad's smile is slow but brilliant. Nate's returning one is just as bright, and it makes Brad pull him up and kiss him.

The dishes don't get done till morning.

That December, Brad doesn't get a letter from his mother. He gets a phone call. It's from a number he doesn't recognize, which turns out to be her cell phone, so Brad had let it go to voicemail while he worked. All his clients call the shop phone. Only Nate and Christina usually call his cell.

"I saw the pictures of you and Nathaniel, is it, with Jessie and Norah," his mother's voice tells him, not introducing herself. It doesn't matter. Brad could never forget her voice. It's not even colored with disappointment like it had been for the last few years he lived at home. "You look good, Brad. And Christina tells me that your motorcycle shop is doing good, and your young man is an aide to a general. She says your place is nicely appointed, if a little sparse." His mother pauses, and in the background, he can hear his father's voice. "Your father says from what your sister said, it's not sparse, but instead, all you need. He says knickknacks are unnecessary."

She pauses again and takes a deep breath. "I'm glad to hear you're doing good. You should call on the first night Hanukkah. I'm sure your Grandma Ellen would be tickled to hear your voice again. She's lost the last of her vision in the last few years, so she won't know you're not sitting in front of her if you don't tell her. And your Uncle Allen is coming down, too. His ex-wife has the kids this year, so he figured he'd come see us and not sit at home alone." Brad had never met his uncle's wife. He'd met, married, and divorced her since Brad had last seen him. Sometimes it feels like someone else's family.

"Brad, honey." His mother's voice cracks a bit, and Brad's chest feels tight. She hadn't called him honey in a long time. Long before he stopped talking to them. Before he left by a year or so. His mother clears her throat. "Brad, honey," she says again. "Give me a call one of these days. I want to hear about this shop of yours, 'Brad's Mods and Repair.' Such a boring name," she tells him, almost chiding. Nate had said the same thing. Brad didn't care then. He only cares a little now. "And, your young man sounds very nice. I'd love to hear about him. Please, honey," and Brad can hear the pleading now. "Call home. We miss you. And—" She pauses, like she isn't sure if she should continue. "And we love you, honey."

She hangs up then. When Nate comes home, Brad's still staring at his phone. Brad doesn't try to explain it, just plays the voicemail for Nate. When the voicemail is over, Nate pulls Brad into a hug, holding him tight for a long while. When he pulls away, he's smiling. "How do you feel like Hanukkah in California?"

 

"Uncle Brad! Uncle Nate!" Jessica yells from the front porch. She's wearing a red and black dress that looks really uncomfortable to Brad, and the lace at the cuffs and neck looks like it itches. It's clearly a Christmas dress. She seems to be fine in it, though.

Christina is standing in the doorway. She smiles wryly at Brad when he raises an eyebrow and glances back where Jessie is being picked up by Nate. "She wanted to wear it tonight, once she learned you wouldn't be here to see her in it for Christmas," Chris tells him.

Brad laughs. "I guess I better remember to tell her how pretty she is a few times."

Chris shrugs, but Brad can see the pleased smile his comment provokes. He's clearly getting this uncle thing better than he used to.

Nate comes up beside him, and Brad slides his hand into the small of his back. It's the first time he's been back to his childhood home since before he turned 18. He's changed a lot in the years since then. It's for the better, he knows, but he still can't help but feel a bit like that 17-year-old who'd just been busted breaking, entering, and stealing for the third time.

Just as they step inside, his mother comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, and she makes a small 'oh' sound when she sees them.

"Hey, mom," Brad says, "I'm home."


End file.
